


Amamus Amatis

by evilmaniclaugh



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Kinkplay, M/M, Modern AU, Multi, Name-Calling, Slightly dubious consent, light dom, musketeers modern au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-27
Updated: 2015-07-27
Packaged: 2018-04-11 13:03:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4436534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evilmaniclaugh/pseuds/evilmaniclaugh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Musketeers modern AU story. Polyamory might be fun, but it doesn't necessarily lead to a fulfilling life. Porthos discovers, the hard way, that the grass isn't always greener on the other side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Amamus Amatis

Ever since he was a kid, Porthos du Vallon had been a grafter. With no family to support him and a brain that was brilliant at practical stuff but shit at regurgitating facts onto paper, he’d had no choice but to dig deep and work hard. Labouring on sites had led to him learning a trade as a builder and he’d been skilled at it too, highly sought after and travelling all over Europe with different crews, soon saving enough money to put down a deposit on a flat. 

Life now was sweet. He was a good looking bloke who kept himself fit, at work and down the gym. There were plenty of women and men available to hook up with, and he couldn't have been happier. At least he'd thought that was the case until the day his numbers came in on the Lotto. He’d never forget the amount of time he wasted staring in shock at the slip of paper and then back at his laptop, certain he must have made a mistake. This kind of thing didn't happen to an ordinary lad like him, not the sort who bought a ticket once in a blue moon when the mood came upon him and he had a couple of quid spare in his pocket.

It wasn’t the big jackpot he’d won, just over half a million in total, but it was enough to have a bunch of so called friends come crawling out of the woodwork with their sob stories, begging him for handouts. However, it was only when his best mate Charon tried to con him out of _all_ his winnings that Porthos decided to up sticks, taking with him the one useful thing his deadbeat father had ever offered--a solid grounding in French--and relocate to the South of France to follow his dream and get himself a business.

Half a mill didn’t buy a matchbox in St Tropez or Nice, but moving east a few miles meant he was able to purchase a pleasant waterside café car in a bohemian little town that still had a good supply of all year round holidaymakers to keep his cock happy.

He’d decided, when he arrived here, to keep his hands off the locals and he was doing a good job of sticking to the plan when a scruffy, vaguely freckled man with a mop of curly hair plonked himself down at the bar and proceeded to demolish a bowl and a half of peanuts, whilst reading the paper, without ordering a single thing.

“Excuse me,” said Porthos. “But I’m actually trying to run a business here. If you want charity then go to the homeless shelter.”

Realising he’d been an idiot and spoken in English--a habit he hadn’t yet grown out of--he was about to translate this into French when the tramp looked up at him with a pair of devastating green eyes and an asymmetric smile that made Porthos’ stomach squirm in sheer pleasure.

“I apologise,” he said in perfect English with just a hint of an accent, enough to tell Porthos that he was indeed French. “I got wrapped up in this story. It’s about an art forger who got caught and went to prison, but is actually selling his own paintings for a fortune now.” He took another handful of peanuts and Porthos coughed loudly.

“I’ll have a bottle of your cheapest red,” said the man, switching to French. “And an omelette,” he added as an afterthought.

“What flavour?” asked Porthos.

“Grape,” said the bloke, raising an eyebrow. 

Porthos was close to laughing but restrained himself, despite the fact that his cock was begging him to play nicely. “And the omelette?”

“Egg,” said the man. “If you have them.”

“Would that be Californian style?” asked Porthos, stifling the chuckle and disguising it as a bored yawn.

“What?” 

“All whites,” said Porthos. “For the health conscious.”

“Do I look particularly healthy to you?”

He looked fucking fit, thought Porthos. Fit to fuck.

“One three egg omelette filled with bacon and cheese and fried in butter,” Porthos dictated loudly to himself then sent the order through to the kitchen.

“I’m a vegan,” said the man with sad eyes.

Porthos looked at him. “I’m really sorry,” he said and then it dawned on him that most of the vegans he knew didn’t eat foetal chickens. “You’re the most awkward customer I’ve ever had.” Pouring wine into two glasses, he grinned. “I’m Porthos,” he said, raising his into a toast.

“Athos,” said his tormentor. “I work in the museum.”

“Is there a museum here?” said Porthos in surprise.

“Not much of one,” admitted Athos. “It’s in a basement in the annexe next to the town hall. It floods when the tides are particularly high so the exhibits are a bit musty. As is my flat which is in the lower basement.”

“You’re not selling it to me,” laughed Porthos.

By closing time, with the doors now locked and the building devoid of customers, they emptied their third bottle and tumbled upstairs to Porthos' fancy apartment, locked together at the mouth.

So much for not sleeping with the locals, thought Porthos. He’d lasted a whole month.

Athos turned out to be a brilliant fuck. Hidden beneath those shabby, rather baggy clothes was a slim body, taut with muscle. He was well endowed in the cock department and had a definite penchant for kneeling in front of Porthos and having a really good nosh whilst he was there. All these things, combined with that dry sense of humour and pretty face, left Porthos thanking his lucky stars and, by the third fuck of the night, beginning to believe in fairy godmothers.

Porthos, however, didn't believe in relationships. He was a staunch member of the 'careful but casual' party as far as sex was concerned, and so it came as some surprise, a year later, to discover that he'd slept with no one but Athos since they'd met. In fact, it was worse even than that, because once he'd seen the state of Athos' basement rooms he'd point blank refused to let him go back there. 

"Bloody hell, it's our anniversary," he said, looking at the date on the newspaper as they lounged in bed having one of their very rare lie ins. He only knew because it had been Guy Fawkes the day they’d met and he remembered thinking it was the best bang of his life.

Athos smirked at him. "Are we going out?” he said. “I never noticed."

"Git," grumbled Porthos, irritated that he'd been suckered into acknowledging their relationship first.

"Stop sulking and I'll give you a present," said Athos, leaning over to suckle at Porthos' left nipple with determined swipes of tongue until he was breathless with need.

Porthos knew what was coming: the slow passage of that mouth heading downwards to his cock, five minutes of blow job then condom on and a good hard fuck with Athos riding him to orgasm. Just because he knew the format, didn't mean it wasn't good, however, after another few months of this, he was starting to feel entrenched, his boots firmly set in concrete. He enjoyed being with Athos, they laughed together, played together, fucked together, slept together. He didn't want to be apart, so much as less of the together.

It didn't help matters that one of the new arrivals, a wavy haired piece of gorgeousness with a cavalier moustache and spirit to match, had been using the bar as his pick up joint: a constant supply of girls and boys in then out of his life as the season brought an influx of young bohemians to town.

"Knocking shop gone out of business tonight?" Porthos laughed as the man sat at the bar, on his own for once.

"You're a cheeky one," he said with a grin that proved he wasn't offended. "My date's been held up in St Tropez. The shoot ran over."

"Is she a film star?" asked Porthos, topping up their drinks. Bartenders were renowned for being nosy.

"He's a model. You may of heard of him. He's called d'Artagnan."

Porthos _had_ heard of him. He was the current icon of every gay fashion victim in Europe. He nodded. "Nice catch."

"I pulled him when I was in Monte Carlo for the F1." He grinned again. "You won't have heard of me. I'm Aramis."

"Porthos." They slapped hands together. "Nice to meet you. What do you do for a living?"

"I'm a chef," said Aramis. "I cater private dinner parties."

"For the rich and famous?" guessed Porthos, adding up Monaco and top models. 

"Indeed," said Aramis.

"Then what are you doing here?" This was a backwater. No jetsetter ever set foot in this town.

"Taking a few months off," said Aramis. "My parents own one of the Old Harbour apartments and I decided to chill out for a bit."

Porthos did some more mental addition and worked out that cooking for racing drivers must be a very lucrative business for the guy to be able to walk away from it for months at a time.

A car horn beeped repetitively and Aramis leapt to his feet. "My handsome fuck is here at last," he said with a wink. "He's never subtle." He downed his wine. "Nice meeting you, Porthos. I'll see you around."

"I'm sure you will," said Porthos. "Have a good screw."

"I'm sure I will," laughed Aramis as he raced out the door towards the waiting Ferrari.

Afterwards, whilst he was locking up for the night, Porthos couldn't help imagining the fun existence Aramis must lead. He'd come here to wind down and still ended up bedding every beautiful creature in town. He wasn't jealous exactly. He wouldn't swap Athos for all the tea in China, but maybe they could do with adding a little spice -- Chai rather than plain old Darjeeling. 

"Hello, beautiful," he said, horny from the idea of Aramis and d'Artagnan shagging in the Ferrari. Not that they'd manage it--supercars were far too awkward for sex--but why bother with details when it was fantasy time.

"Hi." Athos was sitting at the breakfast bar, pouring over stocklists and typing into his laptop.

Porthos wrapped both arms around him and nuzzled into his neck. "You smell gorgeous. Let's have a fuck on the balcony." It was private out there as long as no one looked up from the promenade and, for kicks, they often indulged in some spectacularly exhibitionist sex.

Tonight though Athos wasn't in the mood and squirmed away from him. "Can I please get this catalogue finished first? My boss is pissed off that it's not up to date."

Porthos frowned, annoyed at this mundane shit getting in the way of everything. "You should have done it at work instead of scribbling magazine articles that'll never get published."

Athos swallowed angrily. "Yes, I should," he said. "But that doesn't alter the fact that I have to get it done now."

"How much longer?"

Athos shrugged. "An hour, maybe two."

Porthos sighed. "I may as well turn in then."

Naked on the bed, his hand wrapped around his cock, he was so deep in Ferrari fantasy that he hadn't noticed he was no longer alone.

"That looks amazing. I haven't seen you having a wank before," said Athos.

Porthos opened his eyes, faintly embarrassed that he'd been caught tossing himself off. "Haven't had to, have I?" he grinned, still pulling at his cock, enjoying it too much to stop. "You keep me busy."

"Can I join in, or am I persona non grata?" said Athos, shedding his clothes and leaving them in a pile on the floor.

"Huh?" Porthos looked at him.

"Am I welcome?" Athos stood by the bed, naked, hard, gorgeous, but not quite sure of himself.

"You're always welcome," said Porthos, holding out his free arm and beckoning Athos in. "Come here."

Jerking off together was a change of pace all right, but not the kind Porthos had been after. Still, it allowed them time to talk.

"D'you reckon we're in a bit of a rut?" he asked.

"Seriously?" said Athos, raising an eyebrow as he stroked himself. "Because I had some work to do?"

"No." Porthos shook his head. "That was a total coincidence. I just think we're getting kind of boring."

Athos sighed and gave up trying to masturbate, the life having gone out of his cock. "You've been fixating on Romeo again."

"Not at all," said Porthos. "I did talk to him tonight though. He's a chef. He cooks for all the F1 drivers in Monte Carlo. He's dating a model."

"Well, now I feel so much better," said Athos.

"Babe, no," said Porthos, struck down by a sudden case of the guilts. "I love being with you, but I wouldn't mind us being a bit more adventurous." He pulled Athos into his arms. "A few experiments maybe. Try out some new stuff. There must be things you want to have a go at." Porthos thought hard. "Bondage? Crossdressing?"

Athos looked at him with trusting green eyes. "I'd like it if you were a little rougher with me sometimes." He blushed. "Telling me what to do. That sort of thing."

Porthos rose to the occasion. "You want to be my cock slut?" he said swelling even more when he took in dilated pupils and instant erection. "Get on your knees, now!" he barked, shivering with excitement when Athos knelt passive in front of the glass doors. "Is this what you want?" he said, striding over and standing in front of Athos, his erection jutting obscenely. "You want me to feed you my cock?"

"Yes," groaned Athos. "Please."

"There's a good boy," crooned Porthos, slapping his dick against Athos' cheek. "Speak when you're spoken to. Now open up and let me fuck that pretty mouth."

Jesus, but this game was good. Porthos had never been so hard. Nor had he felt such power. Surging into Athos, he reamed his throat, fingers twisted into that unruly hair.

"Stand up," he demanded, pulling out moments before he came. "Turn around and lean against the glass. Gonna fuck you proper. Fuck you right up where everyone can see."

Grabbing the lube he stretched Athos open with rough thrusts of his hand, two then three fingers until all but his thumb was embedded, teasing mercilessly until Athos reached downwards.

Porthos dragged that badly behaved arm away and twisted it behind his back. "No touching yourself. This is my arse and my cock and my hand. Everything is mine and you do as I say. Do you understand?"

"Yes," breathed Athos.

"Do you want my cock?"

"Please."

Porthos inched into position, bare and glistening with lube. "My beautiful whore," he said as he slammed home, fingertips digging into Athos' hips as he fucked him hard spread eagled against the glazed door, the lights on so that everyone could see their sex. "My little cum slut," he said. "Bet you can't wait to finish this fuck so I can have you on your knees again and feed you my jizz. Gonna make sure you're naked all the time so I can fuck you whenever I want. Sit you on my knee and jerk you off over and over again until you're begging me to stop."

Without even a single stroke of his cock Athos cried out, his semen decorating the window in thick streaks. 

"That's it, whore boy," cried Porthos, pounding into him and shuddering out an orgasm so intense it felt as if it were never going to end. 

It took him a while to recover, resting his head against Athos' shoulder and when finally he looked up he was blushing, embarrassed at how dominant he'd actually been. "Fucking hell, Ath. What did we just do?" He doubled over, still catching his breath.

"I have no idea," smirked Athos. "But it was damn good. I'm going to have a shower and you can wipe down the glass."

"From sex god to window cleaner," grumbled Porthos, catching the roll of toilet paper Athos threw at him, but after the cleanup was complete, he went to bed happy and slept better than he had done in ages. 

Their play proved to be a turning point and from then on fucking became all about experimentation. However, that first kink remained a firm favourite and was the one they slipped into most often. One look, one single word would have Athos eager and ready to respond at all times. Because of it, they'd screwed in the most public of places and the sex was always incredible.

Porthos was thinking about their latest round of risk taking when he was disturbed from his day dreams by a friendly voice.

"Bonjour, Porthos." Aramis was beaming at him from the other side of the bar.

"Hello, Aramis." Porthos was genuinely happy to see him. "You've been keeping your head down."

"I was talked into doing a yacht party, but I've been around." Aramis smirked. "As have you."

Never good at inferring things, Porthos wasn't quite sure what was meant by this. "I always am," he said with a shrug.

Aramis laughed. "And are you _around_ for something new?"

Porthos frowned. "Look mate, I don't do subtle."

"I know," said Aramis with a louche wink. "The whole town knows." He paused. "In fact, d'Artagnan and I were wondering if you'd like to join us for some fun."

Porthos stiffened in all ways possible. He was uncomfortable at the invitation, but more from his immediate arousal than anything else.

"I have a-" The word 'boyfriend' stuck in his craw. Partner always sounded too businesslike. Lover was for cheap romances. "A bloke," he said.

Aramis laughed. "We know," he said merrily. "We were hoping he'd be part of the entertainment package."

Porthos was dubious. "I dunno," he said. "Athos is kind of private."

Choking on the coffee Porthos had poured him, Aramis' eyes widened. "Not from what we've seen, he isn't." He put the cup down and scribbled an address on the napkin. "Both of you come to dinner tonight at my place and we'll see how it goes." He gave Porthos a slow look of appraisal. "No pressure, but I guarantee you'll enjoy yourselves. There's nothing more exhilarating than expanding one's horizons."

Porthos pocketed the napkin and agreed to the plan with a single nod of the head. He was slightly insulted that Aramis was treating him like some kind of country bumpkin. He'd played the field, had three in a bed on several occasions, although up until now his companions had always been girls. Nope, he was no slacker in the sex department; the problem would be convincing Athos who was as stubborn as a mule when the mood took him. He could take him straight to bed and insist on him doing it, but that would be coercive. In the end he decided to be sneaky instead.

"D'you want to go out tonight, babe?" he said as soon as Athos came home. "Flea's covering the late shift for me."

Athos looked up, a full smile on his face rather than the usual smirk. "That would be lovely," he said. "We can celebrate our one and a quarter anniversary."

A bit extra, thought Porthos as they got ready. Couldn't be more appropriate really.

Having memorised Aramis' address, he relayed it to the cab driver and Athos frowned. "I don't know of any restaurants in the Old Harbour."

"It's a surprise," said Porthos, his hand clutched around the neck of a bottle of Barolo.

Athos' face fell the moment he noticed the wine. "So, it's not just us then?" he said in a bleak voice.

"Aramis invited us," said Porthos defensively. "He's my friend. I want you to meet him."

Running a finger around the collar of his shirt, Athos frowned. "You could have warned me. There was no need for this grand deception."

Paying the taxi driver, Porthos slammed his way out of the car. "You'd have said no. You always say no to anything that involves other people."

"I like being with you," said Athos, his lower lip jutting. "Is that a crime? We hardly ever get to go out because you're always stuck behind that fucking bar. I was looking forward to having dinner with _you_."

"I'm sorry," said Porthos, feeling genuinely guilty. Athos never lost his temper. "We'll get tonight over and I'll offer Flea some extra hours. She'll jump at the chance. We'll go out more, I promise." He gripped Athos by the biceps and hauled him in for a kiss, hoping that the evening wouldn't be too dreadful. He'd fucked up and been thoughtless, but then it was only to be expected, him being new to this whole relationship thing.

"That would be good," said Athos, a smile once again lighting him up.

Porthos grinned, relieved to have everything back on an even keel, and with fingers linked together, the two men approached the ornately carved entrance to the Harbour Building. "You can smell the old money from here," said Athos anxiously. "It makes me think of my parents. They felt that a gay son was too much of an embarrassment. We parted company as soon as I'd left school and it was legitimately acceptable to throw one's child out on the streets."

Gripping his hand even more tightly, Porthos said: "I'm sorry."

"I'm not." Athos shrugged. "Leaving home was the best thing that ever happened to me. No more suppers at the club and stupid parties dressed as a penguin."

"Explains your shabby chicness," laughed Porthos.

"I thought that was a term applied to furnishing." Athos squeezed his hand. "Get this over with quickly, love, and I'll give you a blow job on the way home."

"Sounds perfect," said Porthos. And it did.

Athos was right about old money. Porthos had never been inside the Harbour Building before; he'd always assumed it was ex-commercial, or perhaps once owned by the coastguard, but it was clear from the lobby that this had been specifically designed for luxurious living. The ground floor was an immense ballroom of a reception area with private lifts, one for each floor, leading to three vast living spaces. Aramis' parents owned the penthouse.

Porthos was unused to such opulence but ignorance made him oblivious. Athos, however, was jittery and Porthos could sense the nervous energy firing along fibres and across synapses. "It's just dinner," he promised. "Not a party, or anything."

Athos side eyed him, clearly catching meaning from the last two words. He chose not to speak out.

The lift to the penthouse was a velvet lined box, and claustrophobic by nature, Porthos swallowed down his anxiety, the last of it dying away when the doors opened and they were greeted by the smiling face of Aramis, dressed casually, a half drunk glass of wine in his hand and a kiss ready for each of them.

"Porthos, a delight as always, and it's lovely to meet you at last, Athos," he purred. "Come say hello to d'Artagnan and I'll pour you both a drink."

Following Aramis into the living room, Porthos was immediately enchanted by the views from the window and gazed out to sea. 

"Mama and Papa used to moor their yacht here and we'd stay for the whole summer," said Aramis, coming over to stand next to him. "It was a riot. I have five brothers and sisters and we were so badly behaved. The local gendarme would tear his hair out."

"It sounds like fun," said Porthos.

"Life is all about having fun," beamed Aramis. "D'Artagnan," he yelled suddenly, making Porthos jump. "Where are you, you brat?"

The young man who emerged from a flight of iron steps was dressed down, but nevertheless exquisitely, in a pair of shorts and a form fitting t-shirt. He radiated elegant beauty and Porthos felt old and bulky in comparison.

"Hello, boys," said d'Artagnan. "Just as gorgeous in the flesh as in my imagination."

Porthos knocked back his wine, feeling two sets of eyes raking over him as Aramis topped up his glass.

"I hope you haven't gone to too much trouble," said Athos, his manner polite but distant and even Porthos could read the inference. They wouldn't be staying long. This was a duty and an uncomfortable one at that.

"No trouble at all," said Aramis, handing around plates of intricately fashioned canapés that were heaven in a mouthful.

Good food was always an ice breaker and with all four now seated at the table in the octagonal turret room, they tucked in to the meal Aramis had prepared: a taster selection of all his favourite dishes to cook. Wine flowed liberally and as Porthos watched the way d'Artagnan monopolised Athos, he felt fingers crawl up his thigh then come to rest on his crotch and he knew then that they were also a part of the menu.

"Shall we take this upstairs?" said Aramis, waving an expensive bottle of Armagnac at them. "The panorama from the bedroom is exquisite."

Athos was drunk but wary and he looked hopefully at Porthos as if he were expecting him to expedite a swift exit. Porthos, however, was hopelessly aroused at the idea of being wanted by two such beautiful men.

"We can't leave here without seeing the view," he said in a gruff voice.

Was it coercion, he wondered as they were shepherded up to the top floor. Athos had a voice. He could say no to this if he wanted. He could shambol out of here and go back to their mundane little bed in the new town. He was here because he wanted to be and Porthos refused to listen to that inner voice which said he was only doing it to please him.

Watching Athos be stripped and lavished with kisses by the most sought after face in the world would undoubtedly have been a thing of anxiety if Aramis hadn't been doing the same to him. They were being fawned over, treated like playthings, and Porthos loved every minute of it, each kiss a sensual trick, pushing him to new heights. The two men soon stripped out of their own clothes and then switched lovers, Aramis working his wiles on Athos with d'Artagnan kneeling between Porthos' legs and mouthing greedily at his cock.

The brandy heated things up to fever point. Porthos was on fire, forging into Aramis then d'Artagnan and dousing himself off with their come. Blowing Athos, as he was being taken by each man in turn, was a heady pleasure, his lover's body reactive although his eyes held an unreadable message. 

It was a night never to be forgotten. High on poppers they fucked harder, snorting coke to keep themselves going and then hitting sleep hard when the sensory overload became too much.

"That was bloody amazing," said Porthos as he and Athos readied themselves to leave the Harbour Building next morning.

"We must do it again," said Aramis, kissing him full on the mouth.

"Soon," added d'Artagnan, pressing his lips to Porthos' cheek.

Athos was out of range of the kissing. Out of speaking range too, it seemed, and with a hand raised in farewell he plodded off along the quayside. 

"Tomorrow?" said Porthos, kissing both men on the mouth. "My place."

"It's a date," smiled Aramis.

Porthos caught Athos up and together they walked home, basking in the delicate first beams of morning light, the gulls screaming at them from overhead. "That was fucking amazing," he reiterated. "I've asked them over for a rematch at my place tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" Athos frowned. "So soon?"

"Why wait?" said Porthos, his head full of possibilities.

Their next get together turned out to be just as good as the first, and by the time Porthos had several of those wicked, multi sex sessions under his belt he'd taken the lift from cloud nine to cloud ninety-nine, rambunctiously energetic and high on life.

"I can't thank you enough," he said as he and Aramis were enjoying a quiet drink at the bar. "Ath's a great guy, but we _were_ getting stuck in a rut."

"You didn't seem it," pointed out Aramis. "You two were notorious around town -- at it everywhere. That's why d'Art and I invited you to bed."

Porthos felt guilty. It was true. They had been sorting their problems out, very successfully too, but there was something else at the heart of it. "I don't do relationships," he confessed. "Never have. Never wanted to either. Athos and I just fell into living together." He shrugged. "It was easy, I suppose. Sex on demand."

Aramis glanced at him. "Then is there a chance that you and I could go out? I'd love to spend some one on one time with you." 

Porthos wasn't certain. "It's a bit different to what we've been doing so far," he said dubiously. "I dunno. I'd have to ask Athos."

"Of course," said Aramis. "And d'Artagnan would be more than willing to take your other half out. He likes him a lot."

Was this some kind of American swap meet? Porthos wondered.

"It's nothing sinister," reassured Aramis. "Just a way of keeping an affair open and full of fun."

Porthos mulled this over during another round of foursomes. He liked all three men a lot and if they were shagging each other regularly then what was the harm in doing it separately too?

"Whatever you want," said Athos, his expression carefully schooled when Porthos broached the subject with him. "I've never claimed ownership rights over you."

Dating Aramis was brilliant. They went out on his powerboat and then fucked themselves senseless afterwards. Porthos, however, was surprised at how vanilla he turned out to be. He'd been expecting a whole host of secret kinks to be revealed, but Aramis simply liked a good hard pounding once in a while and Porthos was his current weapon of choice.

"D'Art's sulking," said Aramis as they lay together having a post coital cigarette. "He asked Athos out but was refused point blank. Knowing my boy, he was probably too pushy and assumed he'd get what he wanted. He's never had anyone say no to him in his entire spoilt little life." Porthos was surprised how much affection Aramis revealed in the tone of his speaking voice and the smile that played around his lips. "He's absolutely furious."

Later, Porthos confronted Athos when he found him sitting in sombre silence in the living room, ploughing his way through a bottle of red. 

"Why wouldn't you sleep with d'Artagnan? He's really pissed off." Athos was deliberately sabotaging their games and Porthos was fuming mad at him for doing so.

"You're angry with me because I _didn't_ screw around on you?" Athos shook his head in disbelief.

"It's not about screwing around; it's about keeping things varied," Porthos explained as if he were talking to a small child. "We can only do that if you'll play along."

"Is it really so awful that I want to sleep with just you?" Athos replied in a low voice.

Porthos was instantly ashamed. "Come here, beautiful," he said, hauling Athos into his arms and kissing him fervently. "From your lips to God's ears, eh?" It was a pity that he was too knackered and Athos was too drunk for them to do anything more than hug.

With his entire time now divided between shagging Aramis and indulging in orgies, there was no diary space left for Athos. It bothered him less than it should, though he was feeling extra horny tonight and missing his boyfriend a _lot_ , having spent the last hour watching Aramis and d'Artagnan with their tongues down each other's throats. Willing it to be closing time, he locked up as soon as the last customer had shuffled out of the door and the three of them raced up the stairs, chivvying Athos away from the television and into bed with them. 

The listless expression on Athos' face turned out to be the hair trigger to their downfall, though as Porthos realised later, it was just the first in an endless line of stacked dominos.

Itching to draw Athos out of his fugue state, he leapt headlong into some kinkplay. "Listen," he growled as he fisted the man open. "You're going to spread for them both at the same time. You'll do whatever they want. They're going to learn what a good little whore you really are."

Athos obeyed him in silence. Eyes closed. Breath hitched.

Drunk on power, Porthos was transfixed by the sight of his boyfriend sprawled in Aramis' arms, filled from behind with d'Artagnan kneeling over him and thrusting in to join them. "You're a dirty little slut, Athos," he growled as he pulled triumphantly at his own cock. "My cum slut."

Drunk on wine, Athos accepted everything that was done to him and it was only later, when Porthos had finished coming over his face in thick white spatters, that he recognised a look of absolute misery in those eyes as they finally blinked open.

"I need to shower," Athos said, pulling away from d'Artagnan who was attempting in vain to coax an orgasm from him.

Porthos followed him down to the first floor bathroom. "Let me in," he said, feeling uncomfortable.

The door opened and Athos stared out at him, paler and more lifeless than ever. "I've done enough of that for one night, I think," he said, hiding his feelings under an armoured shell of sarcasm.

"You’re tired, babe." Porthos stroked a stray curl away from Athos' eyes. "We'll have a bath together and then go to bed for a kip."

"You honestly expect me to go back to that room after what just happened in there?" asked Athos in disbelief. He pushed Porthos away with an open palm. "What we did together was _private_ , Porthos. It was supposed to be just between us. I trusted you."

"But you never said." When the bathroom door closed and the bolt slid home, Porthos rested his forehead against the smooth wood panelling. "How was I supposed to know?" he muttered.

Back in the bedroom, the other two were oblivious to the drama, curled around one another and kissing languidly. Aramis urged Porthos over with crooked fingers and he tried his best to join in--he'd never slept with just the two of them before--but there was something, or rather someone missing from the equation.

"Go fetch him," said Aramis, after an unsuccessful half hour of play. "The balance here is all wrong."

Eagerly, Porthos hurried off. He'd heard the catch snick on the guest bedroom door and was expecting to find Athos asleep under the duvet. Instead, the man was fully dressed, busy packing a holdall with clothes from his wardrobe and drawers.

"No, you bloody don't, Ath," said Porthos, snatching the bag away from him. "We had a fight. That doesn't give you carte blanche to go running off in the middle of the night."

Calmly, Athos reclaimed the holdall and, once he'd finished packing, he put on his favourite scruffy overcoat. "It's not a fight," he said, cupping Porthos' cheek and kissing him softly on the mouth. "I was hoping you'd get bored of them and come back to me." He attempted a smile, but at its heart it was broken. "I see now that you're bored of me."

"I'm not," begged Porthos, close to crying for the first time in years. "I promise you I'm not. I just-"

Athos kissed him again to shut him up. "For two people who are supposedly dreadful at relationships, I think we made a pretty good stab at it for a while."

Lost for words, Porthos followed him down to the front door of the building, watching as Athos unhooked the keys from his keyring then wincing as they dropped cold into his palm. He was naked in front of the glass entrance and he remembered the last time he'd been standing here in a similar state of undress -- that had been a much happier occasion all around. 

"Athos, please," he said as the door opened. Caught on a easterly gust, it slammed against the rubber stop and Porthos experienced his first icy chill of despair.

"Go back to bed," said Athos. "You'll catch a cold."

Porthos watched him walk away, a solitary figure turning to a distant speck on the promenade. Lonely already, he climbed the stairs to the flat, shocked by the sudden turn of events. 

"Athos has gone," he said to the other two, who were still coiled around each other. "He's left me."

D'Artagnan, an infamous size queen who was very vocal about loving the length and girth of Porthos' cock, crouched between his legs _to make him feel better_ , but Porthos barely registered the blow job. "He can't go back to the museum. His rooms are full of black mould," he said in a panic. "He'll get sick."

"He'll be fine" said Aramis. "Let him sulk for a night and he'll soon come crawling back home to the comfort of your lavish little nest." He kissed Porthos, tongue wet and heavy in his mouth. "You do d'Art. I'll do you. We'll have a nice three way bang."

Porthos was saddened at how little Aramis had bothered to get to know Athos. The last thing his boyfriend had ever wanted was a luxury lifestyle. "Look, would you two mind going?" he said. "I need some time to think things through."

"Of course," said Aramis, kissing him on the lips and then leaving the bed. "Whatever you want, chéri."

"But what about this?" whined d'Artagnan, nursing his erection with both hands, those snake hips jerking forward in annoyance. He really was a spoilt brat.

"I'll see to you later," cajoled Aramis. "Leave the man in peace." He leaned over to speak quietly to Porthos. "It's not your fault. If Athos was this unhappy about it then all he had to do was say no."

"But I would have slept with you anyway and he knew that," admitted Porthos. He couldn't stop thinking about that look of abject humiliation engrained into a miserable, come streaked face. "I let him down badly. I let us both down." He'd betrayed Athos just to impress his new lovers.

By morning, after a sleepless few hours in bed, Porthos reached the conclusion that he _did_ do relationships and that the only person he wanted one with was Athos. Arriving at the museum, minutes after opening time, he was surprised to see the owner, Treville, seated at the reception desk and cradling a cup of coffee with a disgruntled expression on his world weary face.

"Is Athos working on the archives?" he asked.

"He's gone." Treville glowered at him over the top of his glasses. "Didn't even give me a day's notice, let alone a month." His frown lines deepened. "I suppose it's all your fault. Lovers' tiff, or suchlike."

"Or suchlike," agreed Porthos. His emotions were all over the place and he found himself angry once again. Agreed, this was a major fuck up on his part, but he could have made things right if he'd been given a chance. Athos clearly didn't want to work at their relationship if his first thought was to escape town as quickly as possible, leaving his phone behind to ensure that no one could contact him.

To begin with, Porthos attempted to put this first failed love affair out of his mind, carrying on as before, intent on running his bar and sleeping with Aramis and d'Artagnan as often as possible. The problem was that he couldn't manage to raise a smile for either of his lovers. Nor, it turned out, could he raise any other body part when they were all in bed together. Try as hard as he might, he couldn't erase from his mind the look of betrayal on Athos' face as they'd all three used him for sex that night.

"It’s quite simple really," said Aramis, curling a comforting arm around Porthos. “You've fallen in love with M de la Fère.”

Porthos nodded in agreement, having recently arrived at the same conclusion. "I never knew until now," he said. "I think he loved me too."

"Then stop fucking about and go tell him," said d'Artagnan, irritated that his favourite living sex toy wasn't reacting to his ministrations. "You're no use to us here."

"He doesn't mean it _quite_ that way," said Aramis and then he shrugged. "But he is right."

Leaving Flea in charge of the bar, Porthos took off the next day for Paris, searching every art gallery, museum and homeless shelter, hoping for sightings of one lost, rather scruffy stray in a threadbare tweed overcoat that was three sizes too big for him. There was no evidence that he'd ever been here and eventually Porthos gave up, heading in desperation to a place Athos had only ever spoken of with quiet rancour.

"I'm looking for your son," he said to a rail thin woman who, by the look of her very expensive riding gear, had just returned from the stables.

"Thomas," she called in a shrill voice. "There's someone here to see you."

"Your other son," explained Porthos.

"I have no other son," she replied, her harsh tone sending shivers down Porthos' spine. 

As she stalked off into the mansion he was then confronted by Athos' double. If it weren't for the slicked back hair and immaculate Ivy League styling he would have thought he was speaking to Athos himself. Thomas de la Fère was so pristinely perfect that Porthos wondered if he too was gay and was hiding it, in plain sight, under a layer of Ralph Lauren.

"I heard on the grapevine that Olivier's been seen in London," said Thomas in an undertone. 

"But I'm looking for Athos," said Porthos, disappointed once again. 

"Is he still going by that ridiculous nickname?" said Thomas. "A long time ago, he told me that facing rejection would be easier if he took on the name of a mountain." For a moment he looked utterly bereft. "When you catch up with him please tell him I miss him." He passed Porthos a card from his wallet. "Ask him to call me. Tell him that Father is dead and we can finally dance on the bastard's grave."

Porthos had always wanted a set of parents, but for the first ever he felt he'd possibly had a lucky escape. "I'll tell him if I find him," he said.

"You will." Thomas smiled, his eyes a darker shade of green than Porthos was used to seeing, but still so terribly familiar that his heart missed a beat. "If you really want to."

Returning home, Porthos packed for a longer trip and was about to click on the button to purchase his airline ticket when the phone rang. Snatching it up in hope that it might be Athos calling, he answered abruptly when he caught sight of the name on the display.

"Don't be so snappy with me," said Aramis.

"I'm busy," said Porthos gruffly. "I was about to buy my plane ticket to London."

"Well then, you should be grateful to me for saving you money," said Aramis. "Your precious man is in Florence. D'Artagnan spotted him in a café when he was on a fashion shoot then snuck off afterwards to do a bit of sleuthing. Apparently, he's writing boring articles for a dusty old art history magazine. D'Artagnan's words not mine."

"Can he speak Italian?" said Porthos.

"Can't everyone?" replied Aramis dismissively.

Porthos changed the parameters of his search and calculated how quickly he could get to the airport.

"Are you still there?" continued Aramis.

"Yeah, just buying my ticket," said Porthos as he clicked the mouse button. "Tell me where to go."

Scribbling down the details, Porthos was filled with a rush of unquantifiable emotion and was still shaking, hours later, as he strapped himself into the plane seat. The other passengers probably thought he was a nervous traveller, his lips moving silently, but he was praying for something very different than a safe landing.

Not wanting to disturb Athos at work, Porthos booked into a hotel, dumped his stuff off quickly and then proceeded to hunt his prey. Athos was a creature of habit and it wasn't long before he emerged from the ramshackle offices and trudged up the street to the same café where d'Artagnan had first located him.

His heart heaving with a mixture of joy and terror, Porthos sat down in the heavy cast iron chair opposite. "Hello, Athos," he said. "Long time no see."

"Porthos," said Athos and for a moment he sounded happy, but then his expression and his tone of voice hardened. "What are you doing here?" Looking up, he ordered two coffees from the waiter and nodded his thanks. 

Even though that gentle smile wasn't directed at him, it had the same impact as the first day they'd met and Porthos reeled from the memories. "I'm here for you," he said. "Why _else_ would I be here?" He reached across the table for Athos' hand, stroking the slim fingers, needing to reconnect. "I've come to bring you home."

Athos pulled away. "Did it ever cross your mind that I might be happy?" he said, his eyes narrowing.

"You have a boyfriend?" asked Porthos.

Athos frowned. "None of your business, but no. I don't need a partner in order to enjoy life." He smiled again in gratitude at the young waiter who placed two cups in front of them. "Go back to France, Porthos."

Porthos let out a strangled sigh that was mostly made up of misery with a hint of exasperation on the side. "Can we continue this conversation in private?"

"No," said Athos. "There's absolutely no need." 

The melancholy look on his face gave Porthos an ounce of hope, but this vanished along with the next few words. 

"We're not right for each other," Athos continued. "I'm boring and you'll always want more than me. Enjoy Aramis and d'Artagnan. Have fun with your fast cars and fast boats and fast sex. I don't fit into that world."

"And I don't _want_ that world," said Porthos, reclaiming Athos' hand and kissing each fingertip. "I thought I did for a while, but I was wrong. I only want you."

"No, you don't," said Athos, swallowing his espresso in a gulp and leaving a ten euro note on the table. "Goodbye, Porthos."

He could have chosen arrivederci or au revoir to soften the blow, instead he picked an emphatic farewell, and yet Porthos wouldn't, _couldn't_ give up. Following him, at a distance, through the crowded streets, he arrived at a small down at heel apartment building and, steeling himself, he pressed the buzzer.

“It’s me.”

"I thought we'd agreed to part company," said Athos, his voice breaking up over the intercom.

"I have a message for you from your brother," said Porthos.

There was a long silence and then the building door clunked open. The lift was broken and the stairs were neverending, but it was worth the climb when he saw a familiar figure waiting for him on the top floor landing.

"Why did you go to La Fère?" asked Athos, his eyes huge and worried.

"I needed to find you," said Porthos. "I couldn't think who else to ask. Can I come in?"

Sullen faced, Athos stepped aside and allowed Porthos entry into his new world.

The attic room was a tiny bedsitter with views over a hundred rooftops and a tangled mass of power lines and telephone cabling. A cat glared at Porthos from the windowsill, but it accepted his stroking and pushed needily against his palm. "I didn't know you liked pets?" he said, scratching the little animal under its chin.

"He lived here before I did," said Athos. "I saw no reason to throw him out." He leant against the wall. "I don't understand why you went to La Fére after everything I told you about my parents. You must have realised I'd never go back there."

"I know," said Porthos, "but I'd run out of options. Your mother's a bitch, but your brother misses you a lot." He passed over Thomas’ card. "He wants you to call him." He paused. "He also told me that your father is dead."

Athos hung his head and stared at the dog-eared rectangle of cardboard in his hand.

"I'm sorry," said Porthos.

"I'm not," replied Athos quietly. "He wasn't a nice man."

"I gathered that." Porthos stepped a pace closer and reached out, his hand gliding down Athos' arm until he was clutching at his wrist. "In fact, Thomas suggested you should get together and dance on his grave."

Athos let out a strange huff of laughter which turned immediately to misery and Porthos reeled him in, enfolding him in a fierce hug. "I'm so sorry about everything. I fucked up massively, but I didn't understand how much I cared about you until you'd gone."

"No." 

It was more a whine of anguish rather than a coherent word, and as Athos struggled to get away from him, Porthos held on ever tighter.

"Let me go." Freeing himself, Athos staggered back and opened the door of the flat. "Go away and leave me alone." Thomas' card was now a crumpled ball in his hand.

"Athos, listen to me." Once again, Porthos tried to reach for him. "I love you."

Athos shied away. "How could you even say that?" 

There was something in his voice that sent Porthos spiralling into a panic. He stumbled down the stairs and, blinded by a mist of tears, got lost on his way back to the hotel, wishing he'd picked somewhere small and intimate to stay at rather than this great, glass monstrosity. The room was a soulless box and, chugging down a bottle of water from the fridge, he was immediately sick to the stomach and rushed to the bathroom, leaning over the toilet bowl to vomit it back up.

Athos was scared of him. Athos was bloody terrified of him.

Not hungry, not able to feel anything but churning waves of devastation and loneliness, Porthos cried himself to sleep, reliving that horrible night over and over again, applying the worst four letter word of all to what had happened to Athos in their bed, solely because of him. He awoke cold and shivery from lack of sleep but with a determination to prove that he was a better man than he had shown himself to be up until now.

Stalking Athos was too easy--the man was oblivious to most things in the world--and throughout the morning Porthos watched from afar, loving him from afar.

He'd been staring at one particular painting in an out of the way gallery for the last thirty minutes when Porthos finally plucked up the courage to approach him. "What _do_ you see in there?" he asked, mystified.

Athos turned, smiling just a little and it was a relief not to see fear in those eyes. "I'm writing a piece about some of the apprentices who, in my opinion, exceeded their famous teachers," he explained. "This painting here is worth barely ten thousand euro and yet it's so much better than Tintoretto in every way. Look at the defined muscle and how every hair on his head is so real."

"You love all this stuff," said Porthos in wonder.

"I do," said Athos. "It's a dream come true." He raised an amused eyebrow. "Boring though it might seem to you."

Money would never mean anything to Athos. He'd be happy living in that wonky attic room, with a broken piano and a cat who'd adopted him, for the rest of his days. 

Porthos fell even deeper in love. "I promise I'll never hurt you again," he said, his voice a low rumble. "How can I make you believe that?"

"I don't think it's possible," said Athos with a sigh. "Go back to your jetsetters."

"The boys aren't so bad," said Porthos. "Aramis understands that I love you, and d'Artagnan was the one who found where you were hiding."

"Then go home and enjoy them," insisted Athos, his mouth set in a stubborn line.

"I give up," said Porthos, both hands raised in defeat. "I'll leave, but only if you really want me to go."

"I really want you to go," said Athos, his lips twisting into a wry half smile.

"One kiss and I'll be off," said Porthos.

Athos folded his arms and shook his head, resolute to the end. "No kisses. Just leave."

Conceding that the first battle was now lost, Porthos accepted the resounding defeat and did as he was told. The war, however, was far from over. 

Back in France, he put the café on the market and spent every spare moment learning how to speak Italian. With help from Rosetta Stone, Duolingo and some non stop coaching from Aramis and d'Artagnan, he became conversationally fluent within a couple of months, although his grammar was mostly appalling.

He accepted the first offer on the café and as the paperwork was being rushed through, he made arrangements with some old friends of his and then planned yet another new start.

"Are you sure about this?" said Aramis, on the eve of his departure. "You've lost a load of money selling the café in this market. Do you really want to risk more?"

"Money isn't everything," said Porthos. He didn't care whether he had a million or a quarter of a million euros in the bank. He honestly didn't care whether his account was empty. "I'd risk it all for Athos."

"Are you raving mad?" said d'Artagnan in amazement.

"Possibly," grinned Porthos. "Probably. But I know I'm doing the right thing."

"Then go, by all means, but make sure you take care of yourself, chéri," said Aramis, hugging him hard. "Call me if you have any problems. Call me anyway."

"I will," promised Porthos, relieved that Aramis was back to being his friend, something he should have remained all along.

During the flight to Italy, he ruminated long and hard over his decision. He'd wondered for a while what to do with his money, considering whether it was worth buying an oldish master or a small art gallery, but he knew that Athos loathed grand gestures. The choice he'd ended up making was far more practical.

After setting himself up in a small apartment in Florence, he joined a team of heritage funded builders whose job it was to restore old buildings. They were grateful for his skills and he was eager to learn theirs. It was a happy balance and one that had him travelling all around Italy for several months. He enjoyed everything about the work, feeling like himself for the first time in years.

And then just by chance it happened: a happy accident of fate perhaps, or maybe a helping hand from destiny. Porthos was busy restoring the fascia of one of the buildings in Florence, when someone delightfully shabby caught his eye as he wandered past the site. Letting out a loud wolf whistle, he scrambled along rows of scaffolding boards and slid down a ladder to land directly in front of Athos, who gazed at him in hilarious confusion.

"What are you doing here?" He eyed Porthos up and down, taking in his dusty appearance and workman's clothes. "In fact, what are you doing in general?"

"My job," explained Porthos. "Pretty much what I did before I won the lottery. I told you the jetsetter life wasn't for me." The catcalls from his workmates were getting louder by the second and, grinning, he yelled at them to fuck off in a fluent stream of Italian. "So, how about you, Ath? How are things with you?"

"Good," said Athos. "Quiet," he added with a shrug. "Much the same as the last time you saw me really." His eyes wandered over Porthos, drinking in every detail. He'd never been good at masking his appreciation. "Do you live in Florence now?"

"I'm based here," said Porthos. "I work all over the place, but I'll be here for a few weeks while we get this place back to tip top condition."

Athos stared up at the building. "It looks good," he said, nodding in approval. "It was crying out for some attention." He then looked thoughtfully at Porthos and seemed genuinely interested. "Maybe we could have a drink later and you can tell me all about the project?"

Building restoration had been a way in to Athos' world and the honeytrap had worked as sweetly as Porthos had hoped, but as time progressed it had become his passion and he couldn't wait to talk about it to someone whom he knew would care as much as he did. "Sure," he said. "How about we meet at your favourite coffee shop for old time’s sake?"

Athos smiled. "That would be lovely," he said. "Would six suit you?"

"Perfect," said Porthos. "It’ll give me time to finish here and scrub up a bit."

Athos' eyes raked hungrily over him once again, implying that he didn't give a damn about how clean he was and Porthos was pleased to know he was still wanted by the only person who’d ever mattered. 

"I'll see you later," he continued, bounding back up the ladder, cocksure and full of himself.

"So, that's the love of your life," said Gio the foreman, scrutinising Athos as he walked away. "He's a scruffy old thing."

"He's perfect," beamed Porthos. "A hundred percent perfect in every way and I couldn't love anyone more than I love him."

"Then, my friend, you’d better get on with some work or you won’t be finished in time for your hot date with Mr Perfect," said Gio, slapping Porthos on the back.

"Nosy bastard," said Porthos in mock indignation, but to be honest he enjoyed a bit of banter with the lads. This lot were a good bunch. They'd lived in each other's pockets for months now and there was no room for secrets between them. Initially, he'd been wary about them finding out he was bi, but they'd taken it in good stead, enjoying the excuse for many ribald remarks which were often close to the bone but never cruel.

Clocking off on the dot of five, Porthos suffered a slew of cheeky comments as he hurried up the road in the direction of his east side apartment. Nerves didn't set in until he was on his way to the little back street coffee house that had become Athos' permanent haunt. Crippled by them, he grew genuinely terrified, over-rehearsing everything in his head until he was on the point of running away, but then he remembered that it was Athos he was meeting. Lovely, sleepy Athos with the driest sense of humour and an occasional beautiful smile which inevitably made Porthos' heart beat too fast in his chest. Athos, who lounged everywhere as if he hadn't the energy to stand up straight. His Athos.

And there he was, sprawled in a chair at his usual pavement table, eyelids drooping lethargically as he scanned the newspaper for interesting articles.

"You're early," said Porthos as he took the seat opposite.

Athos looked at him and smiled. "Actually no, you're late. I was beginning to think you may have stood me up."

"I almost did," Porthos admitted. "I panicked." His heart juddered again as proof.

"Don't," said Athos, reaching instinctively for his hand, his eyes full of concern. "I'm glad you're here."

"But I treated you so badly," said Porthos, a fingertip tracing the lines of the cast iron table. "I scared you." He looked up. "Do I still scare you?"

Athos stilled his hand until they were connected in a circuit loop across the table. "I felt unsure, unsafe even, but I was never frightened of you."

"I'm ashamed of myself," confessed Porthos. 

"There’s no need, love," said Athos gently. "We both made mistakes. We need to let go and move on."

"I can't ever move on from you," said Porthos.

Whether this quiet confession would have ended in a kiss Porthos would never get to find out, because the waiter chose that particular moment to turn up and take their order. 

"Due caffé," he said to the young man.

"I didn't know you spoke Italian," said Athos, his eyes crinkling with pleasure.

"Doesn't everyone?" laughed Porthos and then he flushed. "I learnt it so I could be here with you," he said quietly. "But I'm glad that I did it for other reasons. I love my work."

He then launched full pelt into an explanation of everything he'd been doing for the last few months: the incredible buildings he'd had a hand in restoring, the techniques he'd learnt, the history he'd uncovered on his journeys. Athos listened, absorbing everything, asking him questions, then taking a timeout to order pizza, and asking him more. In the two years they'd been together, they'd never talked so much.

"Thank you," said Porthos, stopping to take a bite and wash it down with some Pepsi. 

"For what?" asked Athos in confusion.

"I dunno," said Porthos. "For listening. For caring. For everything."

Athos leaned across the table and kissed him softly on the mouth. "It's the best date I’ve ever been on," he said. "Shall we continue it at my place?"

"I wasn't planning on seducing you tonight," said Porthos his voice shaky: nervous, hopeful, excited.

"You're not doing anything," said Athos with a quirk of his eyebrow. "I'm asking you if you'd like to sleep with me."

"There's nothing in the world I want more." This time, it was Porthos who kissed Athos and even with the cold iron ridges of the table digging into his belly he couldn't imagine a more perfect moment.

With a doggy bag full of pizza, they made their way up the hill to Athos' apartment building, holding hands and stopping to kiss on the way as they pointed things out that were of interest to both of them. It was unhurried, a contrast to the drunken way they'd come together the first time, all frantic mouths and greedy hands. This was far more beautiful.

With the pizza put away in the fridge and the cat thrown out for a night on the tiles, they lay together on Athos' three quarter sized bed, kissing an endless pleasure as they stripped each other of their clothes, taking their time. Getting to know each other all over again.

His palm now wrapped securely around Athos' cock, Porthos nuzzled into the crook of his neck and breathed him in. "I can't believe this is happening," he said, watching the passage of his hand as he stroked Athos off. "Thank you for giving me another chance."

"Show me how much you love me," murmured Athos, pushing up against him, mouthing at his skin.

Porthos ripped open the condom wrapper and slid it over his cock. Easing himself on top of Athos, he nudged at him playfully, laughing when he grew frustrated then kissing the frown from his lips. "We have loads of time," he said. "It's Saturday tomorrow."

"And I'll want you just as much then," smiled Athos as he shunted restlessly in his arms. "But I also want you today." He checked his watch. "Preferably at twenty seven minutes past eight."

"I dunno," said Porthos, in between sucking reddening bruises onto Athos' pale skin. "We could wait until half past." He kissed Athos on the nose and then grinned. "Or maybe until Sunday."

"Stop teasing," said Athos and he let out this low rumble of frustration that was so bloody sexy that Porthos couldn't do anything but fold his arms tightly around that slim body and haul them together until they were complete. 

The mutual sigh of relief made them both chuckle with laughter. Bright-eyed, they gazed at each other and then dived in deep, mouths joined, bodies locked, fucking hard in a rhythmic series that extended long into the night. 

"We did it three times the day we met," said Porthos, cradling Athos against him. They'd reached the quiet hours now, when all the world had come to a standstill, except for them. "Let's go one better."

"Don't know if I can," said Athos, climbing astride Porthos. "But I'll give it a go," he added manfully.

"There's my brave soldier," grinned Porthos as he skinned on another condom, grunting with pleasure as he slammed into Athos for their fourth fuck in eight hours.

They slept bundled up in each other, fighting against the warm weather and needing to stay close, and when Porthos woke he felt utterly content for the first time since Athos had left him. His job had given him life, but this was his fulfillment.

Cold pizza for breakfast had always been one of his favourite clandestine treats, but he'd never enjoyed it as much as he did today, squashed up next to Athos. With the sun blasting in through the window and the cat needling them both with demanding claws, they lay together in that narrow bed and fed each other greasy mouthfuls of solidified cheesy bread.

"What's he called?" said Porthos as the cheeky animal stole salami from his fingers and mewed in victory.

Athos smirked. "I've named him Dart. He's a spoilt brunet who likes to lie around in bed all day, demanding attention and complaining if anyone ignores him."

Porthos laughed so much he almost choked on an olive. "You really didn't like those boys much, did you?"

"Not a lot." Athos shrugged. "Maybe in another life we'd be inseparable friends, but in this one we're far too different to get along."

More content than ever, Porthos pinched the last slice of pizza. He'd always thought he wanted to be a jetsetter like Aramis and d'Artagnan, but it turned out he longed for something much more simple.

"How d'you fancy making some music?" he asked, his cock stiffening at the thought of fucking Athos over the broken piano keys.

"I can play Chopsticks," said Athos helpfully.

"I know you can," grinned Porthos, borrowing Athos' wrist to take a peek at his watch. "And it's about time you gave me another demonstration."


End file.
